


Lost and Found

by RosiePaw



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Sentinel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't know if this would be considered a crossover or not.  I've borrowed a concept from another fandom, put a slightly different spin on it and then applied it to the SGA 'verse.  Pretty much everything you need to know about Sentinels can be gained from the faux-quote at the beginning of the fic.  On the other hand, you're going to be lost if you're not tolerably familiar with the first 11 episodes of SGA Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Sentinels:** humans genetically endowed with enhanced senses and a strong sense of protectiveness for the members of their tribe or clan.  They are therefore useful for much the same purposes as dogs – tracking, guarding, etc – and are prone to some of the same behavioural problems, notably aggressive territoriality.  The somewhat greater intelligence of human Sentinels can be both a bonus and a nuisance for the handler.

\-- Phelps, F (2001) _Guide to the Training and Handling of Sentinels._

 

Later on, John would never remember why he did it.  Boredom, mostly, augmented by the long-held knowledge that he had nothing left to lose.  He’d just returned from yet another patrol of the McMurdo base with yet another handler.  Lieutenant Graham was a good kid.  After he’d got done cutting his teeth on John, he’d probably go on to a more permanent handling assignment. 

Handlers and Sentinels were usually paired up at the start of their careers – the stability was supposed to be beneficial to the Sentinel and to make the handler’s job easier.  In John’s case, the brass seemed to assume that if he could do without “stability” for almost thirty years, he didn’t need it.  Logically, the same reasoning should have told them that John didn’t need a handler at all, but hey, that was the brass for you.

So here they were, John, Graham and the brigadier general sounding off at a beleaguered sergeant as they came around the corner.

“What you’re telling me is that you have a chopper for me...”

“Yes, sir!”

“...you just don’t have a pilot.”

“No, sir.  That is, sir, we have three pilots, all of whom are currently in the infirmary.”

“Due to pneumonia, a sprained ankle and a broken arm.  What’d they do, decide to have an all-pilots’ football match at 40 below?”

“No, sir.  None of the injuries are related to each other.  It just happened that...”

“Okay, okay, you know what?  I don’t care.  If you don’t have a pilot for me, I’m taking the chopper out myself.  It’ll be just like riding a bicycle, except noisier.”

“Sir, with all respect, regulations...”

“The regulations can...”

“I’ll take you out, General,” drawled John.

“Sheppard!” Graham hissed.  And then to the general, “Sorry about that, sir.  We’ve just come off-duty, he’s over-stimulated, I’m returning him to his quarters _right now_.”

The general ignored Graham and addressed John directly.  “Who the hell are _you_?”

John came more-or-less to attention. “Lieutenant John Sheppard, sir!”  He snapped off a salute, knowing the movement would draw attention to the wildcat tattoo on his wrist.  And sure enough, the general stared at his wrist a moment.  But then instead of turning away – or ordering Graham to discipline his charge – he continued to study John.

“You’re a little old for a lieutenant...  Wait a moment.  Sheppard, Sheppard...  Afghanistan?”

John blinked.  “Yes, sir.”

“Chopper experience?”

“Yes, sir.  Apache, Blackhawk, Cobra, Osprey.  Including combat conditions, sir.”

“Yeah, hopefully it won’t come to that.  Okay, sergeant, I’ve found myself a pilot.”

The sergeant and Graham sounded off in tandem: “Sir, you can’t...”

But the general – O’Neill, according to his name patch – cut them both off.  “I guess we have to take you too, but you’re sitting in the back,” he told Graham.

***

By the time John settled the chopper into its _second_ landing of the trip, he’d decided that mentioning combat conditions had been a jinx.  There was no other way to explain why someone had launched a glowing squid-like missile capable of doing 180s at their chopper.

On the up side, they’d finally reached O’Neill’s destination.  And John managed to exit the chopper _without_ doing a faceplant in the snow this time.  _And_ Graham was so airsick that he was in no condition to protest as John slipped off.  O’Neill had said not to touch anything.  He hadn’t said not to explore, and John figured he’d might as well enjoy his brief freedom.

Which was how John ended up sitting in a weird looking chair with a holographic model of the solar system floating in the air overhead while everyone else in the room tried to out-talk each other.  The guy with the orange fleece and the flying hands was winning.  Those hands kept catching John’s eye – he had to remind himself not to watch them for too long, not to risk a zone-out.  And then within moments, he’d be watching them again, tracking their motion against the rise and fall of the guy’s voice.

He was so focused on Orange Fleece Guy that he jumped, startled, when a feminine voice said, “Lieutenant Sheppard?”

Damn, the slender, dark-haired woman shouldn’t have been able to get that close without him noticing.  He _knew_ better than to let himself zone – what was wrong with him?

“Lieutenant Sheppard, I’m Elizabeth Weir, leader of the Atlantis expedition.  I’d like to speak with you – some place quieter.  If you’ll come this way, please?”

Busted.  He probably wouldn’t even be allowed to fly the chopper back to McMurdo.  Belatedly, it occurred to him that if this was going to be an official reprimand, he ought to have Graham here.  But Ms. Weir was waiting expectantly, so screw that.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

He followed her to what appeared to be temporary office space and, after she sat down behind the long table, took the chair she indicated.

“How much have you already heard?” she asked.

“Ah, there were some ancient people who used to have a city here.  You think they flew the city to another galaxy.  The expedition’s going through some kind of ‘stargate’ to find it.”

“Very good,” she smiled.  “I’d like you to consider coming with us.”

“Ms. Weir...”

“Dr. Weir.”

“_Dr._ Weir, I can’t...”

“Lieutenant, to use any technology the Ancients may have left behind, we need people with the ATA gene.  You have a stronger expression of the gene than anyone else we’ve discovered so far, with the possible exception of General O’Neill – who’s not available.”

“Neither am I, ma’am.  This ATA gene isn’t the only mutant gene I’ve got.”  And he extended his right wrist, displaying his tattoo.

He’d found that most women tended to be scared or at least nervous of what the tattoo represented.  Some were aroused.  But Elizabeth Weir’s scent and heartbeat never changed as she ignored the tattoo and looked directly back at him.

“Yes, I know you’re a Sentinel.  I also know that Sentinels aren’t allowed to pilot aircraft, yet you’re the one who piloted that helicopter – and skilfully enough that you’re still alive.  How did that come about?”

There were two ways to interpret that question.  John chose the one that allowed the shorter answer.

“General O’Neill authorized the trip.”

“I have every reason to believe I can persuade the general to authorize a longer one.”

“If you can do that then you don’t need my consent, ma’am.  He can make it an order.”

“I’d rather _have_ your consent though, Lieutenant.”  She hesitated, then: “I’ve accessed your records.  You disobeyed orders in Afghanistan, trying to save the lives of three servicemen.  Your Sentinel abilities were discovered in the subsequent inquiry.”

“Because I screwed up,” John snapped.  “From start to finish.  Neither my ‘abilities’ nor anything else I had was enough to save my friends’ lives.”

“But there was a chance.  You testified that you knew they were still alive at the time you went after them.  That’s how...”

“Right, doctor.  That’s what started the line of questions that led to me being revealed as a Sentinel.  I’d’ve done better to keep my mouth shut.”

“You would probably have received a dishonourable discharge.”

“At least I’d be a free man, not some sort of ‘primitive throwback’ who can’t be let loose safely!”

“Lieutenant, you must know that there are people who object to the systematic violation of Sentinels’ human rights under our current laws.  I’m one of those people.”

“And the expedition’s military commander?”

Weir sighed.  “Probably isn’t.”

“He’s the guy I’ll be reporting to.”

“But _he_ reports to me,” Weir shot back.  “Look, this Lieutenant, ah, Graham.  Are you particularly attached to him?”

John shrugged.  “Not really.”

“Good.”

John raised an eyebrow at this blunt response.

“General O’Neill didn’t seem impressed by his performance under stress.”

Considering that Graham had spent the second leg of the trip puking in the rear of the chopper, John could understand why.

“Colonel Sumner – he’s the military commander – will insist that you have a handler, at least in name.  I checked the records.  Two of the military people have the required training, and so does one of the anthropologists.”

This time _both_ of John’s eyebrows went up.

Weir laughed.  “It was something to do with his dissertation?  I don’t know the details.  My point is, Lieutenant, we can make this happen.  And I honestly believe that it would be a chance for you.”

John ducked his head, rubbed the back of his neck.

“At least think about it,” said Weir gently.

***

John got to fly the chopper back to McMurdo after all, with O’Neill again riding next to him and poor Graham once again resigned to the rear.  They were almost back to McMurdo when O’Neill said through his headset, “I told Weir I’d talk to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So this is me talking.”

“Yes, sir.”

And that seemed to be that.  It was the most succinct talking-to John had ever received.  Except that after they landed at McMurdo, just as O’Neill was about to get out, he added, “Sheppard?

“Sir?”

“My son was a Sentinel.”  Then O’Neill climbed out of the chopper and walked away.

***

“My son was a Sentinel.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?  “My son was a Sentinel” – until O’Neill disowned him and wrote him off as a son?  O’Neill didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d do that.  Not like, for example, John’s father.

“My son was a Sentinel” – until he somehow _stopped_ being a Sentinel?  How, experimental gene therapy?  Okay, compared to glowing squid missiles and intergalactic gates, experimental therapy to deactivate the Sentinel genes was a pretty tame idea.  Maybe John could volunteer?

Except...  “My son was a Sentinel” – until he died?  From the hypothetical therapy?  In some other way?

In the end, John decided that the most likely interpretation was, “My son was a Sentinel.  I know the kinds of crap Sentinels can pull and you’d better not pull any of it, Sheppard.”

Which was okay, John could live with that.  But it left him with a choice.  He weighed the probabilities.  Chances of getting killed on this crazy expedition – high.  Chances of running into another pissed-off general in McMurdo who’d let him fly one more time – low.  Chances of finding out that he had even _more_ weird stuff in his genes – actually, he didn’t want to think about that.

In the end he flipped a coin.  And then did what he’d been going to do anyway.

***

The 28th floor of the complex under Cheyenne Mountain was a scene of barely controlled chaos.  At one point John spotted Orange Fleece Guy, now minus the fleece but still talking and with both hands still flying, shoving through the crowd as if on his way to do something important.  Then again, he looked like the sort of guy who thought _everything_ he did was important.

John turned to the young lieutenant who’d introduced himself as Aiden Ford, one of the two military personnel with Sentinel handling training.  “Who is...”  He pointed at OFG’s disappearing backside.

“That’s Dr. Rodney McKay.  You’ve got the ATA gene, so you’ll probably see him in the labs a lot.  He can be, ah, kind of difficult.  Just keep your mouth shut and stay out of his way as much as possible, you’ll be fine.”

Which was unfortunate, because something about McKay made John want to get _in_ his way as much as possible.

“Uh-oh.”  Ford was now watching a gaggle of civilians.  “I have to...  Where the hell is Stackhouse?  Look, will you all right by yourself for a moment?  I’ll pass the word around to send Sergeant Stackhouse over to you as soon as possible.  Just _stay here_, okay?”

“And don’t touch anything.  Got it,” John murmured.  Ford looked puzzled, then shrugged, pushed through the crowd and started talking to the civilians.  Or trying to – when John tuned in on the conversation, he heard Ford ask, “Does anyone else here speak whatever language these guys are speaking?”

It was neither French nor Dari, so John kept quiet.  He only knew a few odd phrases of the latter in any case.  Somehow he thought that, “I’ll suck yours if you suck mine,” wouldn’t be coming in too handy in his immediate future.

A tallish man with squinty eyes and colonel’s insignia came along, glaring when he noticed John standing alone by the wall.  This would be, right, Colonel Sumner.  His CO.  John tried to look harmless and rather stupid, although he’d been told by a previous handler that such attempts actually made him look as if he were smirking.  Colonel Sumner glared harder and said something to a nearby corporal, who dashed off.

A few moments later, Sergeant Stackhouse showed up.  “Heard you’d been abandoned, sir.”  Unusually, in John’s experience, Stackhouse didn’t seem at all put out by having to call a Sentinel “sir.”  “Lieutenant Ford’ll be taking you through the Gate, as we don’t know how it’ll interact with your senses.  I’m just here to stay with you until he’s free.” 

Eventually Ford came back and led John into the Gate room, where the last Marine was just vanishing into the blue circle of the Gate.  The light and colour were intense enough that it took John some effort to stay focused on his handler.  “What’s it feel like?” he asked as they headed up the ramp. 

“Hurts like hell,” replied Ford seriously.  “I’ll go through first and be ready for you on the other side, just in case.”  Then he grinned and threw himself backwards though the Gate with a whoop.

John took a deep breath and stepped through.

***

***

John hadn’t bothered to try and imagine what they might find on the other side of the Gate.  He figured that whatever he guessed at would be wrong.  And in this, he was right.  He couldn’t have imagined any of it, from the song of the city itself to the puddle jumpers to the space-faring vampires.

Perhaps that was why he felt mostly numb as he stood with Ford and Dr. Weir outside the infirmary, waiting for Sumner to die.  Dr. Beckett had kicked everyone out after they’d said their final good-byes to the colonel.  Most people had gone their ways after that.  John figured Weir was still there because she was the expedition’s leader, Ford because he was – now – the acting military commander.  And John himself had stayed with them, partly because he wasn’t supposed to be wandering around without a handler, partly because it simply felt right. 

“I had been thinking,” said Weir in a flat tone, “That we might have some sort of meet-and-greet tonight.  Give people a chance to get to know each other better.  God.”  She shook her head.

“He asked me to kill him.  He wanted me to.  I had my finger on the trigger, but I couldn’t pull it.”  Ford sounded as emotionless as Weir.  His face was aged with grief, a disquieting echo of Sumner’s fate.  John wondered how long the young lieutenant had served under Sumner.

“So you didn’t kill your CO.  And I _did_ kill a few Wraith and in doing so woke up thousands of other Wraith who are now out to get us.”

“In other words, ‘shit happens’?  Is that what you’re saying, Sheppard?” Ford snapped.

John met his gaze and held it.  “I’m saying that in the field, things happen fast.  You make the best decisions you can based on the intel you have.  And you deal with the consequences later.”

The door slid open and Beckett stepped out.  “Colonel Sumner’s gone,” he said simply.

Weir drew in a breath.  “I’ll make the announcement.  Just about his... passing, tonight, so that people aren’t hanging on waiting.  Tomorrow – there’ll have to be more announcements.”

Beckett nodded and went back into the infirmary.  Weir turned to Ford and John.  “Gentlemen, come with me please?”

They followed her back to the room she’d apparently chosen as an office, waited while she made the announcement of Sumner’s death over the radio.  Then she rummaged in a crate and pulled out a bottle of Scotch.

“Parting gift from O’Neill,” she explained briefly at Ford’s obvious surprise.  “He said I might need it.  I didn’t think... it would be so soon.”  She dug out some cups and poured a generous amount for Ford, went to pour for John.

“Not as much, please.  A little goes a long way with me.”  He tapped the tattoo on his wrist.

Weir nodded and poured him a scant finger, then poured rather more than that for herself and raised her cup.  “To Colonel Marshall Sumner,” she said, and threw back the whiskey.

Ford and Weir each spoke a bit about Sumner as they’d come to know him, although in Weir’s case this was only from the planning stages of the Atlantis expedition.  John, listening as he nursed his whiskey, got the impression that their relationship had not been a smooth one and that she was leaving out more than she said.

The other two were well into their second rounds when Ford blurted, “I can’t take command, ma’am.  I’m not ready for this, not yet.”

Privately John agreed, but he was hardly about to say so, especially given that they had no other options.

Weir said quietly, “Are you completely sure of that, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

John sat back, prepared to watch Weir talk Ford into accepting command.  Instead, she returned to the crate, rummaged some more and came up with a sealed envelope, which she handed to Ford.  At a wave from her, he tore it open, extracted some papers and studied them.  Then he looked back at her and nodded.  She indicated John, and Ford handed him the papers.

_Authorize Dr. Elizabeth Weir... at her discretion... promote Lieutenant John Sheppard... the rank of Captain... pending re-opening of the previous inquiry... should Captain Sheppard return to Earth... signed, Brigadier General Jonathan O’Neill._

John looked up from the papers to find both Weir and Ford watching him, waiting.  “Is this about O’Neill’s son?”

Ford looked baffled, but Weir shrugged.  “How much do you already know?”

“He told me his son was a Sentinel.  That’s it.”

“All right.  What I’m about to tell you is a matter of public record – for anyone who takes the time to dig out the various public records involved and pull them together.  That doesn’t mean I want the story spread all over this base.”

“Understood, ma’am,” said John.  Ford nodded.

“Jack and Sarah O’Neill had one son, Charles.  He was home-schooled by his mother.”

“Which means he wasn’t tested for Sentinel traits in school,” Ford pointed out.  “Were the O’Neills trying to avoid the tests?”

“I have no way of knowing that, Lieutenant.  You can ask the general himself the next time you see him,” said Weir levelly.  “After receiving his high school equivalency diploma, Charles O’Neill went to a local recruiting centre and enlisted in the US Air Force.  At the time, his father held the rank of colonel.”

“There’s no way a colonel’s kid would go that route to join the Air Force – unless his parents didn’t want him to,” persisted Ford.

“The entrance test,” said John slowly.

Weir nodded.  “Testing for Sentinel abilities is a routine part of the enlistment procedure, since Sentinels are often drawn to the military or to police work.  Charles O’Neill was tested and found to be a Sentinel.”

“Did he really think he could beat the test?” Ford looked incredulous – until he noticed John’s grim smile.

“Yeah, it’s possible,” said John.  “It’s not easy.”

“As a routine procedure, Charles O’Neill was detained pending registration as a Sentinel and assignment to a handler.  He managed to escape and return to his parents’ home, where he killed himself using his father’s handgun.  The O’Neills divorced shortly afterwards.”

“Jesus,” breathed Ford.

“O’Neill feels guilty about his son, so he’s tossing me a field promotion, is that it?” John ground out.

“Not everything’s about you, Lieutenant Sheppard,” Weir said sharply.  “Lieutenant Ford was never meant to be Sumner’s second-in-command.  O’Neill had recommended a USAF major from one of the SGC teams, but he was injured off-world and couldn’t be released in time to join the expedition.”

“And O’Neill thinks I can pinch-hit for this missing major.”

“General O’Neill has reason to believe, _possibly_ partly based on his knowledge of his son, that your Sentinel traits aren’t a detriment your ability to handle the military command of this base.”

“Yeah, handle it as long as I have someone to handle _me_ and keep me from zoning out,” drawled John.  “A military commander on a leash.”

Ford frowned unhappily and shook his head.  “We could set it up differently, Sheppard.”

“Lieutenant Sheppard, what rank did you reach before you were discovered to be a Sentinel?”

Weir was playing games, and John didn’t like it.  “You already know that, Dr. Weir.”

Surprisingly, she laughed.  “Fair point.  You made it to major, and while your various COs had plenty to say about your attitude, no one ever questioned your ability.  So, how _were_ you coping with zone outs?”

John shrugged.  “Practice.  Stuff I learned when I was growing up.  Stuff my team learned that helped.”  He paused, then added softly, “I had a good team.”

“Do you think you can’t find a good team here?” Weir asked.  He face was grave, her voice gentle.  John looked away.  “I’d give you more time to decide if I could, Lieutenant, but we don’t have time.  We need to move quickly if we’re going to do this at all.  Sumner’s men were loyal to him – and to the Marine Corps.”

“Bates is going to be a problem,” said Ford thoughtfully.  “If we can swing him around, most of the others will fall into line.”

“So, if I were gonna form a team?”  John looked at Ford.

“I’d be honoured,” Ford grinned.  “What about Stackhouse?”

John shook his head.  “I’d rather not have all three of us on the same team.  In case...”  He hesitated.

“In case there’s a situation and you make it back and I don’t,” said Ford steadily.  “Okay, then I’d suggest giving Stackhouse his own team.”

“Sure that _you_ don’t want your own team? And we put Stackhouse with me?”

“No way!  I asked first, Stack’s out of luck.  Besides, I wanna be there when you finally talk the gate- uh, puddle jumper into giving you a turkey sandwich.”

John had to laugh.  “I’ll share it with you.  So, the rest of team.  The Athosians know the local territory.”

“I had a chance to speak with their leader, Teyla Emmagan,” said Weir.  “Her parents started taking her out on trading and diplomatic trips when she was a small child.”

“You’ve already connected with her,” Ford pointed out with a grin.  “Even before that Sentinel vision of yours spotted her necklace in the dirt.”  His smile faltered a moment when John failed to return it, but he continued.  “She’d say yes.  And I think I could train her, ah, to do things to help with zone-outs.  She seems like the type.”

John raised an eyebrow.  “There’s a _type_?”

“Yeah, sort of.  She seems... serene.  Centred.  Like someone who has a lot of quietness to spare.”

“Okay.  Teyla, you, me – and Dr. McKay.”

Weir looked startled.  “Rodney McKay?”

“Are you sure about that, Sheppard?  The guy calls you Lieutenant Lightswitch.”

“Yeah, that’s just it.  If he’s on my team, he’ll have to learn my name.”

“Don’t count on it.  He still hasn’t learned that Czech guy’s name and they work together.”

“I would say,” Weir put in drily, “that Dr. McKay is exactly the opposite of someone who has a lot of quietness to spare.”

“That’s kind of the point.  If we can get McKay to buy into this, then _he’ll_ deal with any of the other scientists who have a problem with a Sentinel as military commander.”

Ford whistled softly, and even Weir looked moderately impressed.

“I’ll ask him myself,” John continued.  “The worst he can do is refuse.”

“I take it that _you’re_ accepting?” said Weir, arching an eyebrow.  John nodded. 

“Congratulations, Captain Sheppard.”  And Weir poured another round of whiskey for a toast as Ford threw John a smart-ass salute.

***

John armed himself for Operation Recruit Rodney McKay with two large cups of coffee.  He also decided that engaging McKay in the labs, his own territory, would encourage him to feel more secure and – perhaps – accepting.

“So, Dr. McKay, you heard Dr. Weir’s announcement?”

“Yes, yes, congratulations, Lieutenant.”

“Captain.”

“Whatever.  Is that coffee?”  McKay grabbed for the mug even as he was asking.  “I suppose this means you’ll have even less time for light switch duty?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we have to see less of each other,” John said with a smile, trying to catch McKay’s eyes.  He must have overplayed it, because McKay was instantly suspicious.

“Why not?  Because as military commander, you’re going to be busy doing, well, military stuff.  And _I’m_ definitely too busy to waste my valuable time on ‘military stuff.’  At least non-scientific military stuff.  Obviously a great deal of my scientific work has military aspects, that’s been true my entire life and I certainly don’t expect it to change here on Atlantis, if anything...”

“See, I knew you’d get it, McKay!  This expedition is all about the scientists and the military folks working together.  Which is why I want you on my reconnaissance team.”

McKay, done with his own cup of coffee and halfway into John’s, froze and studied John over the rim of the mug.  Then he demanded, “Why me?”

“Two reasons.  First, every time we go out, we’ll be relying on complex alien technology for transport – the stargates and the puddle jumpers.  Sooner or later, things are gonna go wrong.  So we’ll need someone who can tinker with them on the fly and get us home again.  Sort of like a flight engineer.”  John paused, mentally crossing his fingers.  He’d put his weakest argument first for a reason.

“Right,” sneered McKay, “and for the position of flight engineer, you need a genius with two doctorates who also happens to be the head of the science department, except that – wait!  You don’t!  What you really need is for the science department head to come up with a couple names of minions who, although lacking his own level of genius, will be perfectly adequate for your purposes.”

“I suppose,” said John doubtfully.  “Except that there’s the _other_ reason.”  He paused, waited for McKay to look at him – c’mon, McKay, c’mon, aha!  Gotcha!

“Every time we go out, McKay, we stand a pretty good chance of running into strange new tech we’ve never seen before.  We need someone who can make a decision in the field as to whether we’re looking at junk, at something that’s about to blow up in our faces – or at something worth bringing back to Atlantis for further study.  Of course, making that decision doesn’t _necessarily_ mean that this person’ll get first dibs on being the one to study the gizmo after we get back.”

“’First dibs’?  What are you, Lieutenant...”

“Captain.”

“...eight?  Anyway, I’m the one who decides who studies what around here.”

“Except you’re a busy guy, McKay.  Which means that if my team comes back with something really cool, you might not realize it right away.  And in the meantime the guy – or gal, Simpson looks like she could handle herself in the field – who found this really cool thing is going to be thinking about it, coming up with some hypotheses, maybe doing a little testing on his or her off-hours.”

“Don’t think I don’t realize what you’re doing, Lieu-“

“Capt-“

“_Captain_.  You’re trying to lure me into accepting your offer by playing on my scientific curiosity.”

Yeah, and your scientific greed, thought John.

“What you don’t seem to realize is that _I’m_ extremely important to this expedition and going out in the field is going to be extremely _dangerous_.”

“Which is why there’ll be three other people along to protect you, McKay.”

“Oh.  Uh, who?”

“Myself, Lieutenant Ford and Teyla Emmagan.”

“Teyla who?  Oh, you mean the hot Athosian chick in the skimpy little top?”

John, who’d been about to expound on Teyla’s fighting abilities, was momentarily taken aback.  Still, if it got McKay to agree...

“Yeah, her.  Y’know, I heard that the teams at the SGC usually ended up getting pretty close with each other.”

“Yes, well, given the circumstances, it would be inevitable if...  Of course the Athosians don’t really have any technology to speak of, I’m not sure she’d appreciate...  But given time...”  McKay was beginning to look a bit dreamy-eyed.

“Hey, speaking of time, wanna get some lunch? That way I can answer any questions you might have about being on the team.”

“Yes, yes, certainly.  Is Teyla going to be joining us?”  McKay began shutting down his laptop.

“Uh, probably not _this_ time, but I’m planning on holding a team, uh, bonding-thing.  Soon.”  But not until _after_ John had gotten Teyla to promise not to kill McKay the first time he opened his mouth.

The mess was busy, but they found a table and sat down.  McKay took a large bite of his sandwich, waved the remainder more or less in the direction of John’s right wrist and asked, “What about the, you know, Sentinel stuff?”

John tensed.  “What about it, McKay?” he replied carefully.

“Well, based on what I’ve heard about Sentinel traits, I should think they’d improve your ability to protect me in the field.”

Let it never be said that Dr. Rodney McKay wasted time beating around the bush, thought John ruefully.

“I take it you’ve never worked closely with Sentinels before, McKay?”

“Not really.  And you seem more intelligent than the ones I’ve met previously.”

John took a breath and counted backwards from ten – in Dari.  McKay doesn’t know, he reminded himself.  He doesn’t know.

McKay was still talking.  “You’ve got enhanced senses, those must be useful for...  Hey, wait a moment!”  He turned in his seat and scanned the mess, apparently looking for something.  Or someone, because his gaze settled on several women seated at a table on the other side of the room.  McKay kept staring until one of them looked up, at which point he gave a little wave.  She giggled and said something to one of her friends.

“There!  What did she say?”  

“Why don’t you go ask her, McKay?” John drawled.

“Because I want to find out in advance whether I’m going to get shot down or not!  C’mon, what’d she say?  Okay, let’s do it this way – thumbs up or thumbs down?”

“Sorry, I made a pledge not to use my powers for evil.  And that includes helping you pick up women.”

McKay reluctantly subsided – much to John’s relief.  The woman’s remarks had _not_ been complimentary, and John hadn’t really wanted to watch while McKay made a fool of himself.  The guy was egotistical to the point of being obnoxious and greedy for extras of anything he could get his hands on, from coffee to knowledge to food to women.  But John remembered McKay taking him and Ford to see the puddle jumpers, pulling them out of his sleeve like a hidden ace when it looked as if they had no hope at all of rescuing Sumner and the others the Wraith had captured.  _That_ was the man John wanted on his team. 

He took another bite of his sandwich – turkey on white, with mayo.

“Do you like bland food because it doesn’t overload your sense of taste?”  McKay was recovering.

“Huh, I never really thought about it.  I just like turkey.  And white bread.  And – yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“So spicy food could be a problem – anything else?”

“I have to be careful about soap, deodorant, stuff like that.  Normally bases with Sentinels on staff stock special cleaning products.  I was a last minute addition to the expedition, so we don’t have any of that.  I’m making do with standard supplies but, uh, not comfortably.”

McKay nodded.  “You can’t be too careful.  I make my own sunscreen.  Want me to talk to the chemists for you?”

John looked at him, startled.  “Uh, yeah.  Sure.  Thanks.”

“No promises, but this is the sort of thing they’re supposed to be good at.  Assuming they’re at least semi-competent, which may or may not be a reasonable assumption given that I’ve already discovered...”

And McKay was off, voice rising and falling as he began cataloguing the many failings of the minions the SGC had foisted on him.

It was considerably later that night when John awoke to the sound of someone repeatedly hitting the chime on his door.  The culprit turned out to be McKay.

“Oh, are you asleep?  It’s only... Oh.  Sorry, I didn’t realize it was that late.  Anyway, stop down at the chem labs tomorrow, well, later today.  You need to see...  Damn, I forgot their names, but one’s got red hair and glasses and she’s kind of –”  McKay’s hands traced curves in the air.  “The other one is blonde, shorter and kind of –”  The hands traced even lusher curves.  “They said they’d have something for you by then, but you have to come pick it up yourself.  Also, they’re not set up to produce large amounts at one time, so you’ll have to pick up refills once a week.”

John watched him babbling on, hands dancing.  He wondered if he could persuade McKay to come in and just _talk_ for a while until John fell back to sleep.  Yeah, probably not a good idea.

“Thanks, McKay,” John interrupted.

“What?  Oh, you’re welcome.  It was just, well, you know.  Seeing that we’re on the same team.  Good night.”  And McKay headed off down the corridor.  To bed?  Back to his lab?

“Good night, McKay,” said John softly.

***

***

Dr. Weir motioned to John to remain behind as the others trailed out of the briefing room.  Ford hesitated, noticing that John was staying, but John waved him on.  He didn’t need a handler with him to field a few questions from Weir.

“Captain, are you sure this mission is a good idea at this time?”

“Ma’am, you keep an eye on enemies, especially if they know where you live.  If they’re planning something, we need to know that sooner than later.  This is a simple reconnaissance mission.”

“To the enemy base where Colonel Sumner was fatally... injured.”

John caught the hesitation and understood it.  Somehow “injured” seemed like too mild a word for being drained of life.

“We don’t intend for us to notice we’re there.  And besides my team, we’re bringing Stackhouse and Markham.”

“And Dr. McKay.”

“Who is _part_ of my team, Dr. Weir.  He deserves to come.”

“Are sure that Dr. McKay himself would see it that way, Captain?  As something he _deserves_ rather than something he’s _obliged_ to do?”

John shrugged.  If McKay were asked in so many words – maybe not.  But John had had the Marines set up a shooting range, and he and Ford had been taking Teyla and McKay there.  Teyla had made amazing progress with firearms.  McKay, well, McKay could now be counted on to hit the broad side of the barn in _front_ of him, as opposed to accidentally hitting any barns behind him or to his left or right.  But as long as the rest of the team had been on the range, McKay had stayed there too, trying gamely again and again.

And not only had he avoided saying anything stupid to Teyla, he’d even let her hit him with her fighting sticks.  Okay, he’d only agreed to do that _after_ he’d watched her hitting John and Ford.  And she’d been noticeably gentler with McKay.  But the fact remained that McKay had left his lab, come down to the makeshift gym, taken the risk, made the effort.

“Why me?” McKay had asked when John invited him to come on the team.  John had thought he was asking, “Why are you wasting my valuable time with this?”  Now he wondered if McKay had really been asking, “Why me?  Because I’m not one of the cool kids.  Is this a trick?  Are you asking me because you’re looking for a goat?” and, “Can I trust you?”

Was McKay greedy, always grabbing for more than he needed?  Or was he _hungry_, never getting quite what he needed but still reaching out, still trying?

So yeah, McKay was coming on this mission, because if John let him skip out of missions, McKay would never be sure that he was _really_ one of the team.  And _everyone_, not just McKay, needed to learn that.     

“We’ll be fine, Dr. Weir.  Teyla’s getting to be a good shot.”

He didn’t think for a second that Weir didn’t notice the misdirection, but she nodded graciously and followed his lead.

“How’s she integrating into the team?”

“Well, the rest of us are learning to do amazing things with sticks.  I’d like to get all of the Marines training with bantos.  If you’re in the field and something happens to your gun, you can pick up two sticks and, hey!  Instant weapon!”

“Weapons as a team bonding experience.  I see.”  But Weir was smiling.

“It’s not all weapons.  Ford’s been teaching her basic handling techniques.  Some of them reminded her of Athosian meditation techniques, so now she’s trying to get the rest of us to meditate with her.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Uh, she shoots a lot better than we meditate,” John admitted.

Weir laughed out loud.  “All right, Captain.  But, this mission tomorrow?  Take care.”

“Will do.  McKay’s bringing his special homemade sunscreen.  Maybe I should get him to mix up some insect repellent as well?”

***

The first sensation John was aware of was confusion.  He had been... somewhere.  There had been pain.  Now he was... somewhere else?  There were two heartbeats – his own and another’s, close by, steady and strong.  Along with the heartbeat came a familiar scent, coffee and burnt electrical wires, a faint tang of male sweat.  A rhythmic tapping noise, fingers flying along a keyboard.  And warmth.  McKay’s body temperature tended to run slightly higher than most people’s.  John smiled and reached out to touch.

With his senses dialled up high, he was unprepared for the shattering noise.

“SHEPPARD, ARE YOU AWAKE?”

John lost the words themselves in the reverberations of the sound.  McKay’s scent was suddenly overwhelmed by sharp, chemical smells.  The overhead light was burningly bright, even through John’s closed eyelids.  When he curled up, trying to get away, his skin scraped across sheets that felt like coarse burlap.  He fought to shut it down, shut it down, shut it all down...

The next time he knew anything at all, he knew that the light had dimmed.  The heartbeat was still there, and a voice – audible to John, but so soft that the speaker must be barely whispering the words. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think, that was such a stupid thing to do.  I’ve called Beckett and Ford and Stackhouse and Teyla, they’ll know what to do.  I was my turn to watch and I’ve screwed up and I’m so, so sorry.”

“Keep talking,” murmured John.  He had the scent again now, reached out towards the warmth.

McKay, of course, paused.  Then: “Did you say keep talking?”  Speaking still so softly, leaning close to catch John’s answer.

“Yeah, an’ you _stopped_.  Keep talking.”  There, McKay’s forearms.  John ran his thumbs along the skin, using its texture to help anchor himself.  Body hair sparser and finer than his own.  Muscle underneath the skin.

“Okay, uh, well, do you want to know what happened?  Because that’s what I think I’d want to know.  Do you remember Ford using...  Oh.  Maybe you won’t want to hear this part.  Because he used the defibrillator to stop your heart and then we couldn’t get it going again.  We got the bug off but your heart wouldn’t start so we put you and Teyla across the event horizon, and then I got the drive pod retracted and then _Kavanagh_ of all people had a useful idea but Ford almost got blown out of the jumper implementing it...”

“For’ okay?”

“What?  Yes, Ford’s okay, everyone’s okay except you and really, the only thing still wrong with you is an unusually large hickey.  So you have to be okay too, Sheppard, do you hear me?”

“Hear ya.”  He’d hear McKay for the rest of his life now, he thought.  No matter how softly the man spoke, no matter from how far away, John would always hear.

“Good.  That’s, well, good.”

 John smiled wider, clasping McKay’s forearms.  McKay reached out to clasp his and that, of course, was when everyone McKay had called burst in.

***

Once John’s immediate medical needs had been tended to, Beckett and Ford latched on to the topic of his response to McKay.

“No offense, Dr. McKay, but you shouldn’t have been able to pull him out of a zone like that.”

“Lieutenant, you seem to be forgetting that I put him ‘under’ in the first place by yelling at him even though I really wasn’t _yelling, _I was speaking in a normal conversational tone, I just forgot that...”

“Before that, McKay,” John interrupted.

“Before I yelled at you?  You were waking up just fine.”

“Yeah, by using you to pull myself back.”

“Like a rope,” Ford suggested helpfully.  McKay bristled, but John cut him off.

“Yeah, kind of like that.  Then you yelled and startled me and I slipped and had to start all over.”

“But when you started over, you were still focusing on Rodney?” asked Beckett.  John nodded.  “When you’re fully recovered, Captain, I’d be verra interested to run a few tests, if you dinna mind.”  

***

John found Beckett’s tests to be both tedious and uncomfortable, as they involved the use of a strobe light to induce repeated zone-outs.  The best thing about them was that eventually, they were done.

“In this scan, you can see the change in John’s brain waves when he enters a zone-out.  The amplitude increases and the waves become more irregular, less stable.  Now, this is when Ford enters the test chamber and starts bringing John out of the zone-out.  D’you see?  The waves decrease in amplitude, but they’re still irregular.  I’ll move this scan to the top of the screen for comparison with other scans...”

“All right, this is the same set-up, except with Teyla instead of Ford.  Any comments so far?”

“Yes,” snapped McKay, “You’re wasting our time showing us two identical scans.”

“Right, then, Rodney, how about I show you something different?”  Beckett displayed a third scan on the screen.

“The waves resume their earlier shape instead of simply becoming quieter,” observed Teyla.

“Verra good, lass,” Beckett replied with a smile.

“But wait, if the others are Ford and Teyla, then this one is, uh.”

“Correct, Rodney.  This one is you.  The effect you have on the Captain’s brain waves is different from anyone else’s _and_ more effective in ending the zone-out.”

“Must be those ‘genius’ waves coming out of McKay’s brain,” suggested Ford.

“Well, as for what’s coming out of – or going on _in_ \- Rodney’s brain, that’s verra interesting.  During the tests, I did simultaneous scans of Captain Sheppard and whoever was working with him.  You’ve just seen the Captain’s scans.  Now here are the others.  Ford...  Teyla...  Would anyone like to describe what they’re seeing?”

“Uh, nothing?” said Ford dubiously.

“Lieutenant, no one is going to scan a living brain – not even _yours_ – and get ‘nothing,’” said McKay waspishly.  John thought that Beckett’s presentation style might be getting on McKay’s nerves.  It certainly wasn’t doing much for John’s.  He wished the doctor would cut to the chase. 

Teyla intervened before Ford could retort.  “I believe that what Lieutenant Ford means is that neither set of waves display any changes.”

“Correct again, Teyla.  And now...”  A third set of waves appeared on the screen.

McKay turned pale.  “Ohmigod.  They’re...  He’s...  You!” he yelled at John.  “You’re doing to something to my brain!”

“Really, McKay?” John drawled.  “Looks to me more like your brain is doing something to _me_.”

“Yes, but the fate of the expedition doesn’t depend on _your_...  Well, I suppose it _does_, but to a much lesser extent than it depends on _my_ brain!  Who knows what hanging around with you is doing to my genius?  You could be destroying brain cells left and right even as we speak!”

“Rodney!” Beckett snapped.  “There are no signs at all of cell necrosis!  As far as I can tell the changes in the wave patterns are harmless to you and beneficial to the Captain.”

“Given that medicine is hardly better than voodoo, ‘as far as you can tell’ is probably about as far as I can spit!” retorted McKay.

“Dr. Beckett,” said Ford, “This may sound stupid...”

“No, no, go ahead, son.”

“Is Dr. McKay a Guide?”

The moment of silence that followed was broken by McKay.  “Right, now we’ve jumped from voodoo to mythology!  What’s next, religion?  There’s no scientific evidence for the existence of Guides...”

“But no scientific evidence that they _dinna_ exist, Rodney,” said Beckett.

“Excuse me,” Teyla interjected.  “I do not believe I understand the term as you are using it.”

“Your show, Ford,” said John with a grin.

“Okay, well, we explained about Sentinels, right?  People like the Captain whose genes give them enhanced senses.  Except sometimes they need help controlling these senses.”

“Which is why you and Sergeant Stackhouse have trained as handlers and why you are training me.”

“That’s right.  Thousands of years ago, there were no handlers.  But there were Sentinels.  They protected their tribes, and to help them, there were people called Guides.  Each Sentinel bonded with the Guide they were supposed to be with, and the two of them took care of each other and had advent- uh, protected the tribe together.”

“What did this bond entail?” asked Teyla.

McKay snorted.  “Depends on the age group the story’s aimed at.  How old were you when you were reading this stuff, Ford?”  Ford, embarrassed, looked at John.

“Ford’s taste in literature is irrelevant, McKay.  Teyla, that answer your question?”

“Yes, except now I am wondering what happened to the Guides and how there came to be handlers instead?”

“Hey, maybe there’ve been Guides around all along, except nobody knew it!”  Ford had evidently recovered his tongue.  “But when we re-establish contact with Earth, Dr. Beckett can share what he’s found out, and then the government or whoever can start looking for more Guides!”

Beckett looked troubled.  “I’m nae so sure that will be their reaction.”

John looked at him, raising his eyebrows in inquiry.

“None of the equipment I used for the scans was Ancient.  It was all equipment we brought with us from Earth, and none of it unusual or even uncommon.  I canna understand why no one’s discovered this before, unless...”

“Unless someone has,” said McKay grimly.  “Maybe even _many_ someones, over and over.  And each time it’s discovered, the information is suppressed.  Is that what you’re thinking, Carson?”

“Aye, it is.  But why?”

“A Sentinel and a Guide bonded in the way Lieutenant Ford described would be extremely loyal to each other,” Teyla suggested.  “If that loyalty were ever to conflict with their loyalty to the tribe as a whole...”

“Or in modern times, to the government – she’s right.  From the government’s point of view, Sentinels would be easier to manage if they had handlers instead of Guides.  If the handlers aren’t quite as effective as Guides, they’re quite literally ‘good enough for government work.’  And since there’s no weird mutual brainwave-affecting going on, the connection between handler and Sentinel isn’t as strong.  It would be more _practical_ all around.”  McKay spat out the word as if it tasted bad.

“Also, it would be easier to train whomever’s available as a handler instead of having to search out a Guide for each Sentinel – let alone to find the _right_ Guide for each Sentinel,” Beckett pointed out.

“Hey, not everyone can hack it as a handler,” Ford protested.  “I mean, anyone can take the training, but some people have a knack for it and others don’t.  It’s like how anyone can take piano lessons, but not everyone has talent.”

“Or passion,” muttered McKay.  They all looked at him, and he flushed.  “_I_ took piano lessons.  My teacher told me I was technically skilled but lacked passion, so I quit.”

“McKay,” Ford said gravely, “Anyone who thinks you lack passion has never seen you eat.”  Then he broke into a chuckle.

“Or seen you work,” added Teyla, with a quelling look at Ford.        

“Okay, guys” John intervened, “Sounds like it’s time we got out of Beckett’s hair.  Doctor, you’ll inform Dr. Weir as to what you’ve discovered?  And also I’d like to send Stackhouse to you so he‘s in the loop.”

“Verra good, Captain.”

***

John led his team-mates to the mess, mostly deserted at this hour.  After they’d gotten tea for Teyla and coffee for everyone else, they settled in at a table near a window.

“Lieutenant Ford, if I may ask, why did you decide to become a handler?” asked Teyla.

“Well, Dr. McKay’s right, I read a lot of stories as a kid.  It sounded kind of cool,” Ford admitted.

Teyla nodded as if this was what she’d expected.  But McKay frowned.

“But you didn’t become a handler.  You _trained_ as one, but you were assigned to the expedition well before the Captain accidentally parked his ass on the Chair in Antarctica.  And we don’t have any other Sentinels along, so you weren’t assigned as a handler.”

Ford shot John a look, as if he were hoping for another bail-out.  But John was curious too, and relieved that McKay had barged in and saved him the awkwardness of asking.  He gave Ford a shrug.  The younger man pulled a face.

“What we learned in training, it wasn’t what I expected.  It was less about working _with_ Sentinels and helping them control their senses than... controlling the Sentinels themselves.  The instructors kept telling us that this was what Sentinels needed.  Stuff about pack mentality.  And also it was kind of implied...  Look, we got told about how Sentinel kids are sent to special schools because they have special needs.  Like they need to spend time learning to work with handlers to control their senses...”

“Which is _not_ the same thing as learning to control their senses themselves,” muttered McKay.

“...and also they need extra time for physical activity, because almost all of them will be going into some kind of military, police or security work.  So they have less time for academics.  Then we finally got to start doing training exercises with real Sentinels, and I realized that all of them were functionally illiterate.”

“I had a few days leave coming, so I spent a weekend with my grandparents, told them some of the things that were eating at me.  My grandfather listened.  Then he told me about ‘separate but equal’ schooling when he was kid.  After that... well, it was too late for me to just drop out of training without making a big deal of it.  So I just made sure not to do too well, y’know?  When the handling training was finished, I asked my CO about doing explosives training instead and he approved it.”  Ford grinned.  “I think he was kind of relieved to hear I already had a Plan B.”

“Not lack of intelligence, then,” said McKay.  He was looking at John, not Ford.  “Lack of opportunity.”

John hesitated.  If he didn’t answer the implied question, then McKay would just ask it outright.

“My father wanted me to carry on the family business.  Also, his sister was a Sentinel.  I found that out later on my own, he never mentioned her.  Anyway, he had money.  Enough that he could send me to private school and if he didn’t want certain tests done, they weren’t done.  And he hired special ‘tutors’ for me.”

“To teach you to control your senses yourself,” McKay guessed.

“Yeah, except no one ever actually said that.  After I got my bachelors...”

“Math?”  McKay sounded weirdly – _hopeful_?

“Nah, McKay.  Dramatic arts.”

“Oh.  _Oh_, are you trying to be sarcastic?  ‘Trying’ being the operative word here.”

Ford was snickering.  Teyla shook her head and prompted, “After you got – is this ‘bachelors’ a mark of attaining a certain level of study?”

“Yeah, Teyla, it is.  After that, I told my father I was joining the Air Force.”

Ford had gone wide-eyed.  “Because you instinctively wanted to protect people, sir?”

John had to smile.  “Nah, because I wanted to _fly_.  Dad was pissed.”

“And you beat the entrance exam, sir.  Not like... like some others who tried.”

“Yes, Ford.  I beat the entrance exam.”

“Wait,” protested McKay.  “If your father was that angry, why didn’t he expose you?”

“Dunno.  Later on, I thought, maybe because of his sister?  But also, arranging for a child to evade testing is at least technically illegal.  People do it, but the law’s there if someone wants to stir up trouble.  And my father didn’t get where he is without making enemies.”

“It’s not illegal in Canada.  Testing’s not mandatory there, it’s just... strongly encouraged,” said McKay unhappily.

Teyla was looking confused.  “Canada is a different planet?”

“Different country, Teyla.  It’s the country McKay’s from.  That’s why his flag patch is different from Ford’s and mine.”

“And things are better for these ‘Sentinels’ there, Dr. McKay?”

“Better than in the States, yes.  To some degree.  A long way from perfect.  I think that Grodin and Beckett would say the same thing about the UK.  Other countries... some are better, some worse.”

“I think I understand more clearly now,” said Teyla slowly, “why Dr. Weir and Sergeant Bates are so mistrustful of my people.  It must be very difficult for your people to trust others when you treat even your own kind so badly.”

John couldn’t meet her eyes, and noticed that McKay and Ford weren’t doing so either.  An awkward silence stretched out until Ford jumped in.  “Sir, may I ask you something?”

John shrugged.  He’d answer if he wanted to.

“The other Sentinels I’ve met have all been enlisted.  I thought they weren’t allowed to be commissioned as officers.”

Ah.  “By the time I was discovered as a Sentinel, I’d already made it to major.”  John grinned briefly.  “Which was actually a surprise to some people.  Anyway, afterwards...” – the grin faded – “the inquiry board broke me back to lieutenant but let me keep my commission.  Maybe they were trying to make me feel better.”

“More likely they were trying to make _themselves_ feel better,” McKay sniped.  He tossed back his last cold half inch of coffee and stood up.  “Some of us have work to do.” 

John watched McKay leave, figuring if he couldn’t enjoy anything else, he’d might as well enjoy the view.  Then he stood up as well.  “I have to run down to the chem labs and pick up some more supplies.”

Ford started to laugh.  “You haven’t caught on to that yet, sir?”

Already turning away, John stopped.  “Caught on to what, Lieutenant?”

“Uh, maybe I’m not supposed to tell you, but...  Okay, I overheard one of the female enlisted saying that _she’d_ heard Drs. Gunnarsdottir and O’Keefe were stringing you along with the weekly pick-up thing.  Apparently their deal with McKay was that they’d only make stuff for you if he set it up that you’d come down and flirt with them on a regular basis.”

John blinked.  “I haven’t been _flirting_ with them.  I’ve just been... friendly.  They always seem to have time to talk and...”  Yeah, and why would these two particular chemists always have time to talk when every other scientist in Atlantis was working around the clock?”

“I have seen you being friendly, Captain,” Teyla commented.  “People who do not know you well might easily confuse it with flirting.”

Ford was wiping his eyes by now.

“I’m out of toothpaste,” John growled, and left with what dignity he could muster.

***

***

It was about time Team Sheppard drew an easy mission, John thought as he watched the dancers on the other side of the bonfire.  Dr. Weir – Elizabeth – would be pleased.  For once they’d actually managed to score some food, with no underground bunkers or atomic weapons involved.  A few more deals like this and they’d catch up with Bates’ team, to date the most successful when it came to bringing the bacon – and tava beans – home to Atlantis. 

The rivalry was friendly.  John and Bates had come to much better terms once Bates had accepted John’s military command of Atlantis, and Stackhouse had never had a problem with either of them.  As predicted, the rest of the Marines had followed Bates’ lead, while the scientists followed McKay’s.  Most of them, anyway.  And Kavanagh was an asshole to everyone, not just John.

So, yeah, life was pretty good.  _And_ Team Sheppard gotten invited to a _real_ harvest festival.

Teyla danced gracefully; Ford, enthusiastically.  McKay, sitting next to John, wasn’t dancing at all, but at least he seemed more relaxed now that the young kids who’d been “harassing” him earlier had finally lost interest.  John spotted a few of them asleep on blankets at the edges of the crowd, watched over by indulgent adults.

McKay, now – if there was even a hint of a fly in the ointment, it was McKay’s obvious discomfort with the whole idea of being a Guide.  Since Beckett’s tests, he hadn’t mentioned it at all except for the occasional rant about warped brainwaves.  Ford and Stackhouse confirmed that he hadn’t approached them for any sort of training.  And yet whenever John needed him, McKay was there.  He didn’t always do the _right_ thing, but he did fewer and fewer wrong things over time, and he was always there.

John took another swallow of the mildly alcoholic fruit punch that was going around.  Ford had cleared it as safe for John.  John had cleared it as safe for McKay, who seemed to think that no one with less than a Sentinel’s sense of taste could be trusted to detect citrus.

McKay was talking, god, when was the man _not_ talking?  But this must have been a boring mission for him, with nothing of scientific interest to geek out over, and he’d been a sport about it anyway.  Even despite the kids.

One of the locals threw a handful of sweet smelling herbs on the fire.  It wasn’t the first time they’d done so this evening, but this time the wind veered just as the thickest smoke puffed up.  John and McKay each got a lungful.  By the time John stopped coughing, McKay already had enough breath back to complain.

“It’s never too late for a mission to go to hell, Sheppard – they’re trying to asphyxiate us!”

“Calm down, McKay, it was a mistake.  Have another drink to clear your throat, you’ll be fine.”

“That’s probably the plan, Captain.  Get us drunk, _then_ asphyxiate us!”  But McKay took a generous swig anyway.  John watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

What _was_ it about McKay?  He wasn’t what John thought of as classically handsome.  His facial features were almost too strong for each other – his nose and chin almost too pointy, his crooked mouth almost too wide, his blue eyes almost too large and round.   But John couldn’t look away.  Didn’t want to.

“Sheppard, why are you staring at me?  Are you zoning out?  Do you want me to get Ford?”

John started to shake his head and whoa!  The whole world went swinging ‘round him!  It was pretty cool, so he shook his head again, except maybe too hard this time because he got dizzy and started to topple over, would have hit the ground if McKay’s shoulder hadn’t gotten in the way.

“Sheppard?  Can you hear me?  Am I talking too loudly?”

Hey, McKay was closer now.  That was nice.  John tucked his head in between McKay’s shoulder and neck and took a deep breath.  Not that he _needed_ to be this close to catch McKay’s scent.  Sometimes, lately, he’d found he could pick up McKay’s scent – and heartbeat _and_ breathing – even when they weren’t in the same room.  But he liked being in the same room anyway because being able to _see_ McKay was still a really good thing.  And being this close to McKay was a really, _really_ good thing, especially when McKay was so warm.

“Sheppard, try to focus.  Do you need me to keep talking?  Do you need to touch my arms or something?  Although you’re already, uh, _touching_ my neck.  Which is fine, if that’s what you need to pull out of this, that’s fine!”

McKay was so warm, he’d really stand out if John were wearing night goggles.  Or if John could see into the infrared spectrum without night goggles...  Beckett!  Beckett did gene therapy, right?  Maybe he could give John gene therapy to extend his visual spectrum.  That would be so cool.  _McKay_ would think that would be so cool.

“Sheppard, tell me what you need.”

John picked his head up from McKay’s shoulder and replied firmly, “Gene ther’py.”

“Gene what?”

“Gene ther’py!  See you in the dark.  ‘Cause you’re so hot.”  Hey, he’d made a double entendre!  And not even on purpose!  John started to giggle.  The sound was so weird that it made him giggle harder and then he got dizzy again and somehow ended up with his head in McKay’s lap.

“You’re not zoned, you’re _stoned_.  Ohmigod, the smoke from the fire, that’s it, isn’t it?  You’re reacting to that?  Sheppard?”

 McKay smelled different down here.  Spicier.  Muskier.  Even better.  John turned his head to follow the scent, trying to get in closer.

“Sheppard, what are you _doing_?”

God, it had been so long.

Some people would no sooner have sex with a Sentinel than with a gorilla.  Some people had a kink for the whole “primitive throwback” idea, which to John’s mind just meant they saw Sentinels as _sexy_ gorillas.

Then there were the handlers who used the Sentinels in their care for their own relief, gaining cooperation with either threats of punishment or rewards of small “treats.”  A couple of John’s handlers had tried that with him, but no one had tried it twice.

The inquiry board had taken away, among so many other things, John’s right to touch and be touched as a fully human being.  But that was – literally – in a galaxy far, far away.  And McKay smelled _wonderful_.  John nuzzled in closer.

“Ford!  Teyla!  Over here!  Sheppard’s stoned and...  Help!”

So good, rubbing his face against McKay’s crotch.  He’d gotten one hand under McKay’s shirt as well, he could feel McKay’s skin.  And if there was skin under the shirt, there’d be a lot _more_ skin under the _rest_ of McKay’s clothes, right?  And John could rub himself _all over_ all that wonderful McKay skin...

“Sir?”  A man’s voice, not McKay’s.

“Captain Sheppard?”  A woman’s voice.

Hands grabbed his shoulders, pulled him upright.  Oops, too fast!  The world went spinning away, too fast, way too fast, and John passed out.  

***

John woke up the next morning, alone in the lean-to the team had been given to share.  His mouth felt like a garbage pit and he had the hangover from hell.  When he staggered outside, he found his team-mates eating breakfast, which...  Okay, forget breakfast.

As far as anyone could figure out, the smoke from the dried _hriya_ leaves – supposedly merely pleasant- smelling and relaxing – had hit John like a ton of bricks.  Teyla explained to their apologetic hosts that Captain Sheppard was often subject to odd and unexpected reactions of this type.  Ford wondered if the effect of the _hriya_ might have been intensified by an interaction with the fruit punch – not that he was complaining, he’d _liked_ the punch.  The locals, eager to make amends, threw in a dozen bottles of punch with the food supplies.

McKay flew them home, his course zig-zagging in time with his litany of complaints.  Apparently helping carry John back to the lean-to had thrown his back out, and then between the pain and John’s phenomenally loud snoring he hadn’t been able to _sleep..._

Beckett took what felt like several gallons of blood from the entire team, gave John painkillers for his head and McKay painkillers for his back, told them both to drink lots of water and then threw everyone out of the infirmary.

Life went on as usual – Pegasus-style usual.  McKay seemed neither more uncomfortable with John in general nor less uncomfortable with being John’s Guide in particular.  And McKay never mentioned the _hriya_-smoke incident at all.

It was driving John crazy.    

***

***

John walked the corridors, too exhausted to do anything useful, too on-edge to sleep.  Crews were already at work repairing the damage left by the Genii invasion and the storm.  He thought people looked at him differently now, some with fear, many of the Marines with respect.  As he rounded a corner, he listened to the muttered comments in his wake, the speakers either not knowing or not caring that he could hear them: “Killed more than sixty...  They invaded his territory...  That’s what Sentinels are _for_...  Pretty damn cool...”

John’s simmering fury abruptly threatened to boil over.  He lengthened his stride and walked faster, heading for McKay’s quarters.  It was only when he got there that he realized he didn’t know why he’d come.  But he was here now.  He could at least improve the comically awful job McKay had made of bandaging his own slashed arm. 

Yeah, it was pretty funny that Rodney McKay, genius physicist, was – _had been_ – so naïve when it came to guns and knives that he didn’t even know how to dress a wound.  Pretty _damn_ funny, thought John savagely.

When McKay answered the door chime, what came out of John’s mouth was, “What the hell were you thinking with that stupid bandage, McKay?”

McKay didn’t blink.  “Maybe that given the current unavailability of trained medical personnel to look at my arm, I could at least tie the jacket sleeve in place and stop it from rubbing the wounds and making them bleed even more?  At least until tomorrow, by which time I would have gotten some sleep and the rest of the infirmary staff would have returned from Manaria so that we wouldn’t be depending on one concussed Scotsman for _all_ of our medical care?”

John felt like an idiot.  “Oh.  Look, I’ve got basic field training.  I could look at your arm?  If you want.”

“The bandage is stuck on now.”  McKay actually looked embarrassed.  “I tried unwrapping it so that I could take the jacket off and it’s, well, stuck and when I tugged at it - _ow_!”

“Ookay, normally I’d start by cutting the sleeve off the jacket, but...”

“Until we re-establish contact with Earth we have a limited supply of clothing.”

“Right.  So we’re gonna use your bathtub instead.  I need clean bandages and some kind of antiseptic.”

“I took one of the field kits.”  McKay pointed to the case lying on his desk.  “That’s where I got the first bandage from.”

They filled the tub with warm water, deep enough that McKay could learn over the side and submerge his arm to soak it.  Once they had the bandage and jacket off, John studied the arm.  The parallel gashes were long and deep, but Kolya had carefully avoided damaging the tendons.  After all, he’d needed to keep McKay in working condition.  John’s uncertain temper started to rise again at the thought of _his_ scientist in Kolya’s hands, but he stamped it back down.  The water had caused the wounds to start bleeding again, not much but McKay was looking pale and his breaths were rapid and shallow.

“McKay, look away if it’s bothering you.  McKay?  I said, look away!”

“Right, right, looking away.”

The red blood was bright against the pale skin of McKay’s arm, so bright that for a moment it was all John could see.  He took his own advice and focused on the field kit instead, digging until he found the tube of antiseptic ointment.  He smeared this lavishly on McKay’s gashes, then covered them with a gauze pad and wrapped a clean bandage around the arm to hold things in place.

“There you go, buddy.”  But he couldn’t seem to let go of McKay.  The warmth and scent of McKay’s skin, the steady beat of McKay’s pulse under his fingers drew him in, wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Sheppard?  Earth to Sheppard!  Are you zoning?  Do you want me to do, you know, some kind of Guide thing?” McKay’s face scrunched up a bit, then brightened.  “Or maybe I should call Ford?  Or Teyla or Stackhouse?”

In other words, anyone who wasn’t Rodney McKay.

“I should go,” said John, standing up.  But McKay got between John and the door, started to cross his arms – winced – put his hands on his hips instead and _glared_.  John obviously wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.  Abruptly, he knew this was one more fight than he could handle today.

He ducked his head, rubbed his neck.  It gave him an excuse not to look at McKay.  “The Marines are proud of me for being a good Sentinel.”

“Because you killed a bunch of people who invaded your territory?  Sheppard, speaking as a civilian who’s worked with the military since I was a teenager, that describes military personnel _in general_, not just Sentinels.  Any one of them would have handled the situation the same way you did.  Except maybe not as well.”

“Any one of them would have brought up the shield and killed 55 Genii.  Not Wraith, 55 human beings.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Would Elizabeth?”

“Probably not.  That’s my point – she’s not military.  She would have tried to come up with an alternative.  And maybe she would’ve succeeded.  Maybe not.  Maybe none of us would have survived.”

“You and Elizabeth almost _didn’t_ survive,” said John darkly.

McKay switched the glare back on.  “Are you angry about being a good Sentinel or about being a not-good-enough Sentinel?  Make up your mind, because you’re giving me a headache.  And the arm isn’t your fault, but the headache _will_ be.”

The response was so _McKay_ that John found himself laughing, something loosening in his chest.

“Okay, buddy, no headache.  I’ll let you get some sleep, you look tired.”

“Right, as if you look so chipper and bright-eyed yourself!”

“Yeah, I won’t be able to fall asleep yet,” said John – only to have his body contradict him with an enormous yawn.

“All right, that’s it.  Boots off.”

“What?”

“If you believe Carson’s voodoo about me bring your Guide, then I get to tell you to lie down.  If you’re not asleep in half an hour, you can get up again and go run or shoot things or whatever, but you’re going to at least _try_ lying down and _that_ means you’re going to take your boots off first.”

John could have gotten up and left – except that McKay would have tracked him down.  He could have argued – except that the argument would have taken longer than 30 minutes.  In the end, the easiest thing to do was to kick his boots off and lie down on McKay’s bed while McKay himself dug some clothes out of a dresser drawer and vanished back into the bathroom.  He returned wearing a t-shirt and track pants.

“Shove over,” he told John.

John shoved over as far as the bed allowed, and McKay lay down next to him.  They suffered through perhaps an entire minute of awkwardness before McKay huffed and repositioned them.  John found himself lying against McKay’s broad chest, McKay’s heartbeat steady in his ear. 

None of John’s occasional fantasies about getting McKay into bed had been like this.  They were both exhausted, not to mention mostly dressed.  And McKay’s intentions were all too obviously honourable.  But at least John would be warm and comfortable for the next half hour.

***

John woke just before dawn, when McKay’s breathing changed.  A moment later, the blue eyes fluttered open.

“Mmmm, gotta...” McKay motioned more or less in the direction of the bathroom.  John squeezed aside to let McKay slip out of bed, wondering if he himself ought to leave now.  But the room was chilly and he lingered a moment, enjoying the warm, McKay-scented sheets.  Then McKay was back, sliding in behind John, solid and strong against his back.

“Lef’ m’ jacket on th’bathroom floor.  Hope th’blood’ll wash out,” he mumbled.  “’F we ever make contac’ w’Earth again...”

 John shivered.

“Wha’?  Sheppar’?”  McKay poked at him.  “John?”

“They’ll lock me up,” said John bleakly, his heart filled with ice.  It was easier to say in the dark.

“What?”  McKay – Rodney – was now fully awake.

“It’s like what you and Beckett said.  They want Sentinels they can control, which means they can’t let a Sentinel do what I’m doing here.  They’ll take me back to Earth and lock me up.”

“Elizabeth won’t let them – hell, _O’Neill_ won’t let them!”

“Elizabeth and O’Neill are only two people, buddy.  God, when we found the mist planet and thought we could re-establish contact, Elizabeth was sounding me out about returning to Earth.  She thinks I’d _want_ to.”

“Fine, then we won’t go back to Earth.  Teyla’s got contacts, she could help us go underground.  The SGC can’t search an entire galaxy for two guys who don’t want to be found.  Getting away’s not a problem – I’ll frig with the security system and if push comes to shove, you can shoot our way out.”

“_Our_ way out...?”

“We’ve both got skills, we can start fresh somewhere else.  And sure, we’d be stuck in the same galaxy as the Wraith, but compared to the _near certainty_ of you being imprisoned for life, the probability of being drained by a Wraith is merely somewhat high, which in the long run...”

“But you wanted to win a Nobel.”  John’s brain was still scrambling to catch up as Rodney’s plans took off down this completely unexpected path.

“Oh, well.  That.  Well – genius here!  I can want more than one thing at the same time!”

“Yeah, I know that, buddy.  I’ve seen you grab a cup of coffee with one hand and the last chocolate chip muffin with the other.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“This is a little larger than coffee and a muffin, Rodney,” said John gently.

“I _know_ that.  So are you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, you moron, I mean, I mean – you’re larger than – well, at least as large as – no, damnit, _larger than_ a Nobel.”

Than a _Nobel_?  “Who are you and what have you done...”

“Oh, shut up.”  And Rodney’s lips brushed the back of John’s neck.  Once.  Again.  Rodney’s heart was beating harder, and John could hardly breathe.

“Rodney, you wanted me to use my senses to help you pick up women.”  To John’s annoyance, his voice came out sounding plaintive.

“I like women,” Rodney said matter-of-factly.  “But I’ve worked for the US military for most of my life.  Some of my likes and dislikes I advertise.  Some I don’t.”

And “advertising” – loudly, even crudely – might double as protective camouflage for a civilian in a military environment.  But what about...

“Okay, then, what was that about setting me up with those two female chemists?”

“That was about you needing special personal care products!  And considering that I’ve _since_ learned you’re willing to flirt in exchange for food and ZPMs, don’t expect me to believe that you have problems flirting for shampoo and conditioner.  Especially given that you probably go through shampoo and conditioner faster than you go through food.”

“I _don’t_ flirt for food and ZPMS, I’m just being...  You know what?  Never mind!  Forget I asked!  You like women _and_ men?  Fine!  You’re willing to give up a Nobel for me but you don’t care whom I flirt with?  Fine!  I’m going to sleep.”  John tried to pull away, but Rodney was stronger than he looked.  And Rodney wasn’t letting him go.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” he said quietly.  “It’s that I don’t know what I can do about it.  I’m not the kind of person who routinely ends up with ridiculously attractive, unexpectedly intelligent, brainwave-warping team leaders of _any_ gender lying in my lap and, well...”

“Practically licking you through your pants?” suggested John.  He grinned as he felt Rodney’s face grow hot against his neck.  Rodney’s scent was changing, too.  “But you didn’t say anything, after.  Except for complaints about your back and my snoring.”

“What people say when they’re stoned doesn’t always count for much afterwards.”

“It does in this case, though,” John said invitingly.

“Mmmm, yes?”  Rodney was nuzzling at his neck again, as if Rodney liked John’s scent too.

“Yeah.  Even sober, I definitely think it would be cool if Beckett could come up with some kind of gene therapy that would give me infrared vision.” 

And then just as Rodney drew in breath for an extended sputter, John moved backwards against him and wriggled a bit.  He heard Rodney gasp and wriggled a bit more, then turned in Rodney’s arms and kissed him full on the mouth.  The hell with their mutual morning breath, it was so damn good to be here in Rodney’s bed, all pressed up against him.  They might never get _out_ of this bed, it was so good.

John wanted... he wanted... he planted his knees outside Rodney’s thighs and pinned Rodney’s shoulders against the bed, all the better to lean down into Rodney’s mouth, John’s hips rocking as his tongue searched deep.

But Rodney shoved John away, shoved again as John tried to surge back against him.

“John, we’re still _dressed_,” Rodney wailed.

Rodney certainly had a point there, one which John tried to remedy immediately by attacking Rodney’s pants.  The genius had other ideas.

“Each one – his own – faster!”  And Rodney gave John another hard shove.  John rolled with it, hit the floor on his feet, stripped faster than he ever had in all his years in the military and turned to see...

Rodney.  Lying there.  Outspread.  Gloriously naked.

That was pretty much the end of planning and coordination on both sides.  John half fell, half threw himself down across Rodney.  They were rubbing, _thrusting_ up against each other, kissing each other’s mouths, each other’s stubble-rough jaws and necks, their hands grabbing, greedy, _hungry. _ And when Rodney groaned, “Slow _next_ time,” the whole concept of “next time” – next time with _Rodney_ – undid John completely.

***

John woke a second time, sweaty, sticky and now mostly underneath Rodney, who was in similar shape.  They needed showers.  They needed to report in to Elizabeth and check up on their people.  They needed to repair their city, do their jobs, ensure the expedition survived in an alien galaxy.

But John would never be less than fully human again.


End file.
